There’s a small love seat sitting on one far wall, right next to a wide workstation. There’s an easel positioned right next to an entire wall of windows, floor to ceiling, where all the natural light flows in.
“What is this, Everett?” I finally ask.
“It’s your studio.”
“Mystudio?”
He nods. “I spent a lot of time wondering where home was,” he starts, and I’m taken aback by the calmness in his voice. The genuine frankness and vulnerability. “I used to let my work dictate where I lived, and it never really bothered me. But then I came back here, and I saw what I’ve been missing.” He takes a step closer to me, gauging my response with heed as he watches me for any signs of protest. When I don’t give any, my curiosity outweighing any doubt or reservations, he continues. “And I realized that this place is the closest thing to home I’ll ever have.
“I’d like to say it’s the weather or the sandy beaches, but…it’s home to me because you’re here.”
My throat tightens, and I feel like giving up. I don’t want to fight this anymore. I don’t want to search for all the reasons I shouldn’t be here, listening to this man while he tells me how he feels about me.
“So, this is where I’m going to be.”
“You bought this for yourself?”
He nods. “I’m not going anywhere this time.” I exhale a shaky sigh, and my chin starts to tremble. “And, this may be a bit presumptuous, but this home is yours too.”
“Mine?”
He nods. “If you’ll have it.”
“Everett, I told you,” I cry. “I can’t…” I start to cry, wiping away at the tears spilling out the corners of my eyes while working on the last bits of my resolve to stand my ground.
But even as I stand on the brand-new wood flooring, I can feel it start to shake. It’s starting to break and crumble, making me want to run into Everett’s arms. And I realize the fear of never getting over Everett is completely valid. It isn’t some irrational thought I’ll look back at one day only to learn I just needed some time to get over the greatest love of my life. I will never move on.
“I know,” he answers, taking a step closer to me. “And I’m not here to badger you into changing your mind. I’m just here. That’s all Teeny.”
It’s then my eyes catch a large, covered canvas. The corners of it peek out through the torn paper it’s wrapped in, and I recognize the colors pop even from the small, exposed inches of the painting. I walk over to it and lift the ripped corner, tearing it back. The loud harsh sound echoes around us, and I feel Everett stand behind me.
“You bought my painting?” I remove the last bits of paper, pull at the twine holding everything together before taking a step back to take it in.
I don’t know why, but it’s more beautiful than when it was hung in the gallery. Where it looked commercial and manufactured on display for sale. Here, it looks like it’s at home. To be enjoyed by the only two people it was meant for. The blues and yellows and purples glow with a warm fluorescence, and that lifeguard tower stands out as a reminder of the Teeny and Everett we used to be.
“I was storing it here for now,” he explains, his warm breath close to my ear. “I thought maybe you’d want to decide where to hang it, so…”
My shoulder blades brush his chest, and I feel my body lean into him. I want so badly to give in. To let my weight fall against him, to let his arms wrap around my stomach while my head tilts to the side and his chin rests on my shoulder. I’m suddenly back in my garage, Everett’s looming presence there to listen to me talk and learn about all the things that I loved. To be engrossed in whatever my hands and fingers were bringing to life.
“I thought it wasn’t for sale.” I turn around to face him, and I see him hanging on to my every word. To my movements, my breathing, the way I’m taking everything in, the way the tears have stopped but my cheeks remain stained.
“I made a pretty good offer.” He thinks to himself before adding a reserved smile and, “Actually a really good offer.”
“Why?”
He lifts his hand to cup my cheek, his movements keen yet somehow apprehensive. Like he’s gauging my reaction as he moves, wondering if the way my shoulders sag or how a sad smile twitches at my lips is a sign that it’s okay for him to touch me. I curve into his hand, letting his warmth sink into my skin. And that feeling that everything feels right returns, making me realize how I don’t ever want there to be a time when he has to think twice about touching me. How it should be second nature for him, like breathing or sleeping.
“Teeny.” His voice is almost mocking, shoving aside every question in my head wondering why he would go to such lengths to buy my painting. “How could I not?”
I reach up to lay my hand over his, turning my cheek so my lips press a soft kiss into the palm of his hand.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, the truth too conflicting for me to keep inside.
“You have every right to be.”
“I’m going to be scared for a really long time,” I continue. “And I might rub it in your face until you become sick of it.”
He nods.
